In their teens and twenties and into their thirties they had shared clothes and jewelry and encouraged each other in their respective man hunts.
When Celia thought she had one snagged, Maggie would cheer her on joyously. But when they hit forty things changed. It became obvious that neither one of them had what it takes. Celia was too smart for her own good and Maggie had no chin. They were both rejects on the market.
Although they lived in different towns it was a comfort to know there was someone they could call and there would be time for long sharing of confidences.
Celia was a teacher, Maggie an RN. They had good lives and much to share. Tales of horror from the OR and fourth grade social studies. Much laughter. Many recipes.
On Celia's 56th birthday she called Maggie and Maggie wasn't home. Celia didn't think much about it. She ordered some new shoes from a catalog and read the latest Belva Plain.
The next night Maggie didn't answer again. She had not called to answer Celia's messages. Celia called in the morning early. Still no answer. Could Maggie be ill? Lying dead in her apartment? Not likely.
Then Celia knew. Maggie had a man! She felt a great pang of hurt and anger and jealousy. How could she? How dare she? How dare she not tell her? Not share her joy in such good fortune? How could Maggie abandon her to a lonely old age?
It was too unkind.
She met Gilbert two weeks later. Maggie brought him to dinner. Celia had to laugh. He was the perfect man. Charming, twice divorced, wealthy, self deprecating. She could not resent him.
It was a terrific dinner. They all got along so well. They were still laughing at three A.M.
When they were gone, Celia went to her bedroom closet and took down the shoe box on the high shelf. She sat on her bed and looked at the pills she had managed to collect over the last twenty years. Most still potent no doubt. She sat until the first light filtered in, then she sighed and returned the box to the shelf.
Perhaps later.